


A Circular Staircase (the prenups remix)

by bravebeetle (signalbeam)



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signalbeam/pseuds/bravebeetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt says, loudly, “Speaking of old friends, you’ll never guess who I ran into today.” </p><p>	“It wasn’t Quinn, was it? I worry about her sometimes. Tina says Quinn has a money laundering operation in New Haven, but she might’ve been having another stroke.” </p><p>	He waits before saying it. “Adam.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Circular Staircase (the prenups remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Chord Change](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101047) by [Ink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink/pseuds/Ink). 



“Couples therapy,” Kurt says when Rachel comes back from rehearsal, Santana coming in half a second later with a look on her face that says, ‘I made Berry take the stairs all the way up here, look at my hair. I styled it while I was on the elevator.’ “Normally I wouldn’t bring it up, but did you know there are ten different shrinks in New York who specialize in mediating lead-understudy relationships between roommates? You’re going to all of them. Or just one.” 

“It’s nice of you to care, Kurt,” Rachel says and oh, boy, he knows that tone. “But Santana and I already made up.” 

“You two were fighting over who could take the elevator up!” 

“Yup. I won because I spat in her eye. I’ve been sucking on habaneros for that extra bit of venom—” Rachel steps out the room, shaking her head and throwing her hand up in the air, both maternal and diva-esque at the same time. Kurt thinks he has that same gesture in his library, and decides to removes it. Matronly isn’t a good look on anyone. “Fine! Run away if you want.” Santana drops her coat on the couch, rears her head back, and spits onto the floor. 

“Good God,” Kurt says. 

“My whole mouth is burning. I need milk.” 

“You can get it yourself,” he says. “Now, I’ve left the names and numbers of the therapists on the fridge, so you can call and insult them in Spanish like you always do when I recommend places to you—”

“I definitely turned on one of the delivery guys. He still calls me to tell me when he’s masturbating.” 

“Thank you for that horrifying mental image.”

“Besides, therapy isn’t our style. If we saw a shrink instead of singing and choreographing our way out of being nutjobs, we never would’ve won Nationals.” She gets a glass of milk from the kitchen, completely ignoring his afternoon of hard work, and takes a long gulp. “All I’m saying,” Santana says, and licks the milk moustache off her upper lip, two dazzling swipes of the tongue that she probably shows to people when she wants to feel like a lesbian sexpot. “Save this for when your shotgun engagement goes sour, Hummel.” 

“Blaine and I are fine,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about RSVPs for the wedding. ‘Blurt’ or ‘Kaine?’ They charge by character, so we’re looking for something catchy and short.”

“No one who’s deciding whether to put ‘Blurt’ or ‘Kaine’ on their RSVP cards is fine. You guys don’t even have a date for the wedding.” ‘Hello? _Hello_?’ her face seems to be saying. 

“Well, that does it,” he says, and sighs. “Blurt’s out of the running. Kaine it is.”

*** 

The offices for the first six therapists on his list are nearby NYADA. 

“I’m just here for the brochures,” he says with a smile and wince as he stares into the offices. Unhappy couples, unhappy lead-understudies, just an endless quantity of people slumped in a chair and staring into the magazine in their laps. Not the most inspiring of sights, but he’s going to keep trying. 

At the last office by NYADA, two blocks away, it’s Adam at the desk. Someone bumps into Kurt when he freezes in the door. Kurt winces and tries to apologize, but the person’s already pushing his way to the desk. 

“I’m the lead for that off-Broadway Shakespeare company,” the man says. 

“I see,” Adam says. God, that accent. What is it? English? Scottish? Cockney? He doesn’t remember anymore. Kurt picks up a magazine and tries to look busy, but it’s too late. The next thing out of Adam’s mouth is, “Kurt.” It’s said like the hot breath of a dog over a bone. 

“Joseph,” the man says. “Off-Broadway, Julius Caesar? Don’t you bums pay attention to culture?” 

“Joseph,” Adam says, smooth and even. “Of course. Dr. Appelbaum will be with you in five minutes. Would you like a toffee apple?” He hands the toffee apple to Joseph-Julius Caesar and says, loudly, “Can I help you back there, sir?” 

He could technically say no, but Adam’s mouth is a carved, buried frown on his face, so different than the smiling man shaking his butt to an acapella Baby Got Back. It’s his fault, he knows. “Funny seeing you here,” Kurt says, dropping the magazine with a grin. 

“Do you have an appointment?” 

“I only came here for the brochures. You see, my roommates—”

“I can give you a business card,” Adam says. 

“They really respond better to brochures,” Kurt says. “Ones with weirdly literal titles. ‘How to deal with your roommate getting the same role as you without killing anyone.’ ‘What to do if you’re cohabiting with two possible sociopaths.’ ‘What are warning signs you’re living with a cannibal.’ Things like that.” 

“We have business cards.” 

“Okay,” Kurt says. “I’ll take a business card.” Adam puts a card on the counter. Kurt picks it up a second later. He thinks he should be able to feel Adam’s touch on the paperstock, feel the raised ridge of oil deposited by one of Adam’s frankly blunt farmer fingers. Dr. Appelbaum, PhD. Address printed below. Sad Greek tragedy masks in red. Once he’s absorbed enough details, he looks up at Adam. He tries to look casual, but oof. The thing he just did to his own hip. “How have you been, anyway? Graduating in the spring, you must be excited?” 

“I’ve been busy,” Adam says. “How’s your husband?” 

“Fiancé.” Kurt smiles, brief. “We’re doing fine. Everything’s fine.” 

Adam’s thumb straightens out the collar of his shirt. He takes a breath, then says, “I’m not fine. Honestly, Kurt, I didn’t have any—expectations. But I’m still angry. You understand that, don’t you? You cheated on me.” He doesn’t break his gaze from Kurt’s, but Kurt’s already detaching, a part of him swimming away like a fish going downstream, out of the river, into the ocean, no matter how many nets Adam casts, no matter how alluring the bait. It was always that way with him. 

Still, part of him struggles to reach for the bait, or the balm. “Adam,” he says. 

“You’ll have to reschedule your apointment for next month. If you want.” 

Kurt writes his number on the back of the business card and slides it back to Adam. “Can you ever forgive me?” he says. 

“You’ve been through before with him. You tell me.” He pockets the business card. His face is set to smooth, neutral. Unfamiliar. “See you next time.” 

*** 

By the time he gets back to his apartment, he finds he’s set his phone to silent while he was on the subway and has missed two calls from Blaine. 

“You can’t just steal my script,” Rachel is shouting from her room. “Or my bras!”

He doesn’t take his coat off. He puts the brochures on the coffee table and goes to sit out on the fire escape. The wind blows. Just as he considers heading back, he sees Santana stepping into the living room and climbs up a flight. 

He’s done this before: hiding on the fire escape, legs long on the black iron landing, phone against his ear. It’s warmer than it was back then. When he thinks about that winter, the snow, the ice skating rink—a cold wind blows, as though winter has found one last cache of cold somewhere, and needs to share. 

There is always somewhere to be cold in New York. He’s learned that now. He puts in the call to Blaine. 

“Kurt,” Blaine says, ready to receive and earnest. “Kurt. Thank God you called back. My brother’s taking me to LA for the next month. Can you believe it? Who does he think he is?” 

He can hear the old well of Blaine’s indignation filling up. Oh, boy. He says, loudly, “Speaking of old friends, you’ll never guess who I ran into today.” 

“It wasn’t Quinn, was it? I worry about her sometimes. Tina says Quinn has a money laundering operation in New Haven, but she might’ve been having another stroke.” 

He waits before saying it. “Adam.” That shuts Blaine up. He can see Blaine—where is Blaine now? In the hallway of McKinley sitting on the floor, back pressed against a painted cinderblock and legs tented up in front of him. He’s resting his elbow on his knees. He has pressed his chin to his chest. His eyebrows are pushed together, his eyes searching for someone, anyone for support. Blaine’s a coward, it’s true, but even his worst, most chicken shit actions are driven by animal instinct. Hide, escape, run, fuck. He laughs and says, “Don’t worry. Nothing happened.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says. “Kurt. I never meant to hurt him.” 

“ _What_?” 

“I know, okay? I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, how could Blaine be so inconsiderate, how could he ask me to marry him when he knew I had a boyfriend, why is my fiancé a cheating homewrecker? I don’t know, Kurt. I don’t know what else I can say at this point.” 

“How can you—I can’t believe how self-centered you are!” 

“That’s just who I am! Narcissism is a part of being—Kurt, I’m… God. I’m sorry, okay? I—” 

“I called you to tell you—never mind. Go have your month of torture acting camp with your brother. I’ll talk to you once you’re back from the land of brotherly bonding.” 

“Kurt, please don’t be—” 

“I hate it when you start every sentence with my name, it’s something you do all the time and has no one told you how—”

“—mad, I hate it when we fight, I thought—”

“I called to ask you if you planned it this way,” Kurt says. “For me to be with someone and make me say yes, just so I’d have to lie and cheat and know what you did and _why_ so I’d have to shut up about it for once. But I don’t, Blaine, I don’t. I should have said no and made you wait because now I’m the man who broke up with his boyfriend to get hitched to his cheating ex. And it’s too expensive making all these RSVP cards, so no, your brother isn’t invited to our wedding!” 

“I didn’t want him there to begin with!” Blaine with his eyes shut, Blaine with his calves folded into his quads, Blaine with one hand spread out wide open and by his face, stretching wide in frustration. Kurt takes a deep breath, a breath so deep he nearly makes himself cough. He stands up on the stair landing, puts a hand on his hip and takes a few more deep breaths. Blaine says, “I didn’t think about any of—I don’t know what I was thinking, I just wanted. I wanted you back, Kurt. I wanted to be with you. Is that okay? Can I use your name if it’s at the end of the sentence?” 

He stares down at the stairs. He can’t see Blaine in the McKinley hallway. The only thing there is the black metal, rusting brown and red in patches like some kind of rash. Above, a neighbor shuts her window. Below, Santana and Rachel are fighting over the TV. The wind blows away that special smell of New York, the smell of car exhaust and hissing sewage, and brings in clean, frigid spring. 

“I do know how you felt,” he says. 

“Okay,” Blaine says, like it’s a question. 

He came back to New York and he hadn’t thought about Adam at all. A day went by, then another day, then Adam’s text on his phone had come and that was the first time he realized what he had done. The big difference is that he doesn’t love Adam, he barely had more than some kisses and saucy texting at six in the morning. But what a thing to do.

It hasn’t escaped his notice, either, that Blaine had said, _I wanted you back. I wanted to be with you._ But he hadn’t said, _Because I wanted to be married to you._ What a thing to do. 

He turns his face up to the sky. The buildings block the sun and the air smells like squirrels fucking in a bathtub. “I think we’re going to have to sing this one out.”

“Single or duet?” 

“Duet,” he says. “Let me.” He hums the first few bars to a song they once practiced with the Warbler, hears Blaine take a deep breath. “You,” Kurt begins, but on the other end Blaine says, “We.”


End file.
